All About Seduction(26)

She had to conceive a child.

She lifted her chin and headed out the door. But as her steps took her down the stairs and closer to the drawing room, her heart thumped erratically. Her whole body trembled. Fearing she might be ill, she paused. She did not want to face Lord Tremont, but Mr. Broadhurst had followed her as if she couldn’t be trusted to return on her own.

Who was she fooling? She had no desire to return to the drawing room tonight. He knew it. She knew it, but what else could she do?

Steeling herself, she reached for the door handle and twisted. She walked through the room, ignoring Tremont, while she ascertained if anyone needed anything—like a good hostess.

When sufficient time had passed for her husband to have gone back to his room, she made her excuses. After making a gracious exit, she headed down the servants’ stairs to sit with Jack for a few hours. She would be safe there. Mr. Broadhurst would suspect she’d gone off with one of the gentlemen, and none of the guests would bother her.

Maybe when Jack was not in so much pain, she could seduce—

She missed a step. Was that the reason she’d had him brought to the house? Her heart hammered in her chest. He, at least, wouldn’t think she wanted to marry him or was using him to form a political alliance.

But would he even be willing? Could he want her?

Jack woke to a cool hand on his forehead. For a second he wanted to believe that his mother was soothing him through a childhood illness. But his long gone mother had never made him feel like Mrs. Broadhurst did. Besides, he couldn’t forget where he was or why he was here when his lower leg shrieked with pain.

He sluggishly reached to push her hand away or still the tremble—he wasn’t certain—but her fingers pushed his hair back. She removed her hand, leaving him yearning for her touch. But why had her hand shook?

“He ate a bit of the soup and drank all the orange water,” said the stout woman who’d been sitting with him. “Gave him his dose of laudanum at eight. Been sleeping in fits and starts, poor thing.”

“Would you see to it one of the servants is assigned to take my place long about midnight?”

The stout woman agreed as her chair creaked.

After what he thought was a few seconds, he blinked his eyes open. In spite of the fire the room seemed dark, but he was only interested in seeing Mrs. Broadhurst. She stood at the foot of the bed and clutched a leather volume as if it were a lifeline.

Curiosity fought through the haze of the medicine. Had he taken a turn for the worse and wasn’t aware yet?

She gathered a spotted shawl around her. It covered her creamy shoulders and breast, which he would have liked to see again. Her attention was over her shoulder on the door, as if she feared an intrusion. If she were freshly concerned over his condition, she would most likely be focused on him. Besides, the housekeeper’s report hadn’t sounded dire. Jack breathed deeply.

Mrs. Broadhurst turned and offered a half smile. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

He shook his head and tried to ask what she was reading, but his words came out as a rusty croak. His mouth was drier than dirt.

“Are you thirsty?” she asked.

“Yes,” he rasped out.

She rustled as she moved through the room. Her gown was not of the material made in her husband’s mills. No, it was finer stuff probably imported from the Orient. His clothes, made of rejected cloth with dropped threads or knots in the weave, had been cut off and taken away. He supposed the cotton undergarments and nightshirt he now wore were made from mill cloth, but it was one of the higher grades of fabric and most likely belonged to Mr. Broadhurst.

She poured a glass of water, and the sound of liquid made Jack shiver. Earlier, he’d drunk an entire pitcher of the sweet drink she ordered for him. Perhaps drinking more was a mistake, but his mouth was so dry.

She paused beside the bed holding the glass. Her forehead furled.

He struggled to his elbows. The room spun and tilted. His head wobbled as if it were barely attached to his neck.

Mrs. Broadhurst sat on the bed beside him. God, how many times had he dreamed of having her in his bed, but not like this, never as his nurse. It was just plain wrong. And he had to get out of here before he slipped up and caressed her.

She pressed the glass to his lips.

He pulled his head back. “I can do it.” Once he got himself propped up. His mewling weakness irritated him.

“You would like to sit, then?” she asked calmly.

“Yes.” Risking jarring his leg, he pushed back. Pain flared like a rocket up and down his leg. He barely bit off an obscenity mid-word.